In 1954, when Elvis Presley recorded his first record at Sun Studios in Memphis, Tenn., nobody bothered to take notes or snap pictures. Who knew history was being made? Elvis wasn't king. He was a shy young man with a silky voice who doted on his mother and had a feel for rhythm and blues.

Mark Soo goes to absurd lengths to re-create the look of the studio that day, but his pair of stereographic photos on a curved wall can only do so through an audience. Only when seen through a pair of glasses with tinted lenses can the flat surface pop into fully realized, three-dimensional sets.

Titled "That's That's Alright Alright Mama Mama," Soo's stereo photos pay tribute to Andy Warhol's "Double Elvis." The larger tribute is to the tipping point in American music, when rhythm and blues fused with country to crack open the world. Elvis didn't create the sound, but he created the mass audience that created his career.

Soo's room-size installation is part of "You Complete Me" at Western Bridge, an exhibit based on the premise that an engagement between art and audience can be active on both ends.

Andreas Zybach

offers the audience not glasses but a walk through a large tube made of yellow silk and polished plywood. Its self-mockingly pompous title, "0-6, 5PS," suggests that exactitude rules. Every dimension and every seam is perfect, although the path is rocky. As people walk through, they pump the floor up and down, creating the hydraulic pressure that releases streams of dark gouache onto surrounding walls.

Hey presto. We've got paintings.

Like Soo, Zybach pays tribute to history. Early in the 19th century, J.R. Meyer envisioned an underground tunnel to collect rainwater and generate enough pressure to set Meyer's silk-weaving mill in motion.

Meyer's goal was practical, and Zybach likes to pretend his is too. Even though his project is preposterous, he persists and implicates others in his persistence. All who trudge through his tunnel become artists, the evidence of their industry on the walls.

Also showing at Howard House and the Seattle Art Museum, the brothers Eli HansenandOscar Tuazon festooned the entrance to Western Bridge with mirrors. Titled "Just Because You're Paranoid," it allows you to see yourself seeing yourself, a self-involved ricochet.

Christopher Chiappa's

"Gas Tank" is a pleasure. Inset into a white gallery wall is what looks like the lid of a car's gas tank. Lift it, and that's what it is. As prices rise and sources shrink, a gas tank buried in a gallery wall pretends functionality but is, like gas tanks of the future, useless.

Upstairs behind a closed door is a bedroom half full of silver-gray balloons. If you move through them, the static electricity will cause them to cling to you and pop. This snap-crackle sea is brought to you by Martin Creedand titled "Work No. 360: Half the air in a given space." Like Soo's double studio calling out to Warhol's "Double Elvis," Creed's balloons are heirs of Warhol's helium-filled, silver Mylar pillows.

Remember your ancestors, continued: Matthew Cox's "Fragile. Not" is a homage to Robert Morris' landmark "Box With the Sound of Its Own Making," bought by Virginia and Bagley Wright in the 1960s and donated to the Seattle Art Museum.

Cox doubled Morris' wager with two wood boxes, although you have to shake them to make them mean anything. One shakes a fragile sound, while the other, containing a rubber object, could be shaken forever and remain fracture free.

Alfredo Jaar

protects us from what we don't want to know. His photos documenting atrocities are sealed in boxes.

tailored living room is full of air. Titled "Skyspace Bouncehouse," it invites you to bounce off its walls as if you were a lunatic in a padded cell or a child in a fun house. Not being either, I didn't.

is primarily a commercial photographer who only recently got a phone with a camera, because no camera phone could be up to her high standards. Much to her surprise, she was immediately smitten.

"Lbr" is the result, an open-ended text-and-image story of Little Bear, available to anyone who texts Lbr and the name of their cell phone provider to 206-992-9263.

Teenagers in Japan write novels on their cell phones. Some sell briskly. Working at her kitchen table and using household props, Chartier might be the first to produce a series of lucid little still lives coupled with a tale told in the congested language of texters: "Ltl br thnx of wntrz approach."

This serial story in 28 segments is in viral motion around Seattle and beyond. Without audience participation, it doesn't exist.